Midnight Verse
by Spin11
Summary: Sara dreams about a certain poet warrior


Midnight Verse

AU/PG

Summary: The blade gives Sara visions of a particular poet warrior.

Disclaimer: I own nothing dealing with Witchblade. As for the poems, they are not mine either. So no use in suing this poor soul. Let me know what you think. Enjoy! )

The romantic interlude of the song faded away into nothingness. Leaving the cold, loft empty with just the humming sound of the refrigerator and the sob and sighs of two women. Sara spared a sidelong glance over to her weeping friend. She reached for the almost empty box of tissues and offered it to Vicky. "Thanks," she mumbled, with a fresh tissue in hand, Vicky dabbed away the last remnants of tears spilling from her eyes. With that done, she gave one final sniffle and blew her nose. She tossed the spent tissue onto the already growing pile of white on top of the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. Hugging the pillow, she held in her arms, closer to her chest.

Sara reached for the remote and turned off both the television and DVD player. She offered the entire box of tissues to Vicky, fearing that her friend's water works had yet to be finished. The mass of black curly locks bounced as she shook her head. Sara smiled, amused by her friend's behavior. With a contented sigh Vicky said, "Why can't I find a guy like that?"

Shaking her head, Sara started, "Because Vic guys like that," tossing the remote onto the coffee table, "doesn't exist in the real world."

Vicky stared thoughtfully at the handsome actor on the cover box. She sighed, "You think so?"

"I know so, Vic." Sara said while cleaning up. Sweeping the pile of white tissues into an empty pizza box. "How about some tea?" She suggested while walking towards the kitchen. Vicky nodded her head. After dumping the box into the trash bin, Sara started to heat up the teakettle. Vicky watched Sara from the couch.

"You really believe that guys like this," Vicky held the movie box in the air, "Don't exist in New York?" Sara nodded her head. "Gee, Pez. Aren't you the romantic optimist."

"I'm just being realistic, Vic. I mean come on, guys like that," Sara nodded over to the television set, "are either married, gay, or dead."

Vicky propped her chin up on the back of the couch, and dreamily stared out into space. "I don't know, Pez. There might actually be guys out there for us. Ready to love us so intensely, so purely that its…"

"Frightening," Sara added.

Vicky smirked, "No, magical."

Sara rolled her eyes, "Let me guess you're going to tell me that you believe in soul mates, destinies, and love at first sight?" She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for an answer.

Vicky raised her own eyebrow, "Looks who's talking. I seem to recall you having a 'love at first sight' moment." Sara hung her head. Vicky quickly apologized, "Hey, I'm sorry, Pez. I didn't mean to bring him up again."

Sara shook her head, "It's okay, Vic. Honestly, now that I think about it, I'm not sure it was even love between Daniel and I. I mean it seemed like everyone around me had someone of their own, all except me. I was feeling lonely and I guess I just got swept in it all." Vicky gave her a sympathetic smile. "Well enough about him. You still haven't answered my question, Vic."

Vicky smiled, scrunching up her nose, "I'd like to think so. I want to believe that there is a man out there just as romantic, loving, and passionate like the guy from the flick. Could you image a guy like that, so in love with a woman that he'd spent lifetime after lifetime just waiting for her? Talk about dedication." Vicky started to laugh. "Yeah," Sara weakly agreed, the synopsis of the movie character strangely resembled someone she knew. The shrill of the teakettle pulled both women from their thoughts. Sara shook her head, pushing the idea aside. Turning around she turned the stove off and poured hot water into the two mugs.

In the background, Vicky continued to fantasize. "It would be a dream come true if a guy like that existed. Don't get me wrong, the guy has got some major flaws in his character but that can be worked on." Vicky audibly sighed for the umpteeth time. "Man, what I wouldn't do to have a guy read me poetry every night." She snorted, "Then again the only way I'd get a man like that is in my dreams."

Sara stared down at the table. Vicky's words soon faded into nothing, only to be replaced by the soothing sound of a male's voice, deep and rich.

_Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. _

Sara snapped back to reality, "What did you say, Vic?"

Vicky stared at her strangely, "I said I have better chances in my dreams." She got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. It was obvious Sara was deep in thought. She didn't even register Vicky's presence behind her. Sara closed her eyes, rubbing the sides of temple. What was going on? Suddenly the image of a large fire escape flashed in her mind. "Hey, you okay?" Vicky asked, nudging Sara's arm. Sara blinked profusely until the haziness she felt cleared. She looked down accusingly at the bracelet that sat innocently on her wrist. 'Stop it,' she warned. The blade winked at her, if you could call it that.

Vicky grabbed one of the mugs and headed for the couch, Sara following behind. "So," Vicky started, still staring speculatively at Sara. "Describe your perfect guy, Pez." They both sat down on the couch, Sara on one end and Vicky on the other.

Sara had a case of déja vu. The last time she was asked that question not moments later she met Daniel. What good did that get her? Sara shook her head, "I don't know, Vic. I just want someone who is strong enough to keep up with me."

"Oh, Is that all?" Vicky replied sarcastically, taking a cautious sip of her tea. She eyed her friend, and as much as she loved her, Vicky knew Sara wasn't exactly the easiest person to get along with. It would take the world's strongest and tolerable man to keep up with her.

Sara just rolled her eyes, "Well what about you? What's your perfect guy?" Vicky sighed and dreamily listed her perfect man.

"I guess that's it," Vicky finally said after much deliberation on the perfect man.

Sara rolled her eyes, "Is THAT all? Geez, Vic, you don't ask for much, huh?"

Vicky shrugged her shoulders, "What can I say, I'm picky."

"And here I thought all you looked for was a pulse." Vicky picked up the small pillow off the ground and threw it at Sara who easily blocked it. "Ha, ha, funny."

Vicky glanced at her watch, "It's pretty getting late. I should get going." Vicky got up and grabbed her stuff. Sara walked her to the door, "Thanks for the movie night, Pez. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Later, Vic."

After clearing away the rest of the dishes, Sara got ready for bed. She sighed as her head hit the pillow and was soon fast asleep. Completely unaware of the mischievous glint coming from the eye of the blade. What exactly did the Witchblade have in store for her?

Ian looked up from the small leather bound book he cradled in his hands to read the time off the grandfather clock. The loud chimes echoed eerily throughout the empty halls. After the twelfth ring, all was silent. Nothing but the hissing sounds from the fire and Ian's hypnotic voice wafted through the room. He read aloud from the book of poetry he had found in the library.

_She walks in beauty like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies,_

_And all that's best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_

_Thus mellowed to the tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One ray the more, one shade the less_

_Had half impaired the nameless grace_

_Which waves in every raven tress_

_Or softly lightens o'er her face,_

_Where thoughts serenely sweet express_

_How pure, how dear their dwelling place._

_And on that cheek and o'er that brow_

_So soft, so calm yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow_

_But tell of days in goodness spent_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent._

Sara disappointedly moaned as the soothing voice she had been listening too faded away. She turned in her sleep and that was when Sara realized she was no longer in her bed. Her eyes snapped opened and she shot up into a sitting position. "Where the hell am I?" she said aloud. Nothing but the quiet night answered her question. She took in the unfamiliar surroundings. From the tall sculptured hedges and the bed of rose petals she was sitting on, Sara concluded that she was in some sort of garden. Whose and where was still a mystery waiting to be solved.

She stood up and was greeted with a gust of wind. The thin chiffon fabric that covered her body did nothing to ward of the night chill. "Great, it's the middle of the night, I don't know where I am, and all I have on is a sheet and the Witchblade. Well, I can't stay here all night," she said. Sara was rather reluctant to move from her spot, but if she wanted a chance to actually find a way out, she needed to start hauling ass. But in which direction? Sara sighed as she stared up to the inky blackness of the sky speckled with dots of twinkling stars. "Right, Pezzini. Like you can navigate your way out by just the stars. What the hell do I look like a damn sailor?" Sara heard a snicker and she could have sworn it came from her troublesome bracelet.

"Oh, shut up you. This is your fault I'm here. What he hell are you trying to do to me anyway, huh?" She looked down at the accursed bracelet. The crimson stone twinkled in the dark night. "Why do I even bother? It's not like you're going to be of any help to me." The blade started to glow just to spite Sara's incisive remark, showing her where to go. Sara rolled her eyes but didn't hesitate to follow the blade's assistance.

After what seemed like hours of the blade directing here, Sara found herself in the center of a crossroads. Where to go next? Left, right, up, down? Damn it! "Well come on, where to?" Sara tapped the stone of the blade. It glowed once then dulled out into what Sara refer to it as the 'Ignore Sara's plea for help' stage. "Oh, I don't believe this. Figures, you always do this to me."

She shook her head, "Now what?" Then the answer came to her in a faint voice. It floated through the garden walls and carried to Sara's ears. It was his voice, the very one that had lulled her in her sleep.

_Come to me in my dreams, and then  
By day I shall be well again!  
For then the night will more than pay  
The hopeless longing of the day. _

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,  
A messenger from radiant climes,  
And smile on thy new world, and be  
As kind to others as to me!

Sara closed her eyes and listened to the words he spoke. Absently her legs began to move. It was like a Siren's call, his voice was carrying her, guiding her out of the garden maze. So long as he continued to speak she would be fine, she would follow.

_Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,  
Come now, and let me dream it truth;  
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,  
And say: My love! why sufferest thou? _

Come to me in my dreams, and then  
By day I shall be well again!  
For then the night will more than pay  
The hopeless longing of the day.

In no time, Sara stood in front of a door. Her breath hitched as she recognized the sensual art of the Kama Sutra carved intricately into the oak panels. She placed her palm against the cool surface and pushed it open. She did not know where she was, nothing looked familiar. A huge stone hearth, set inside the wall blazed its fiery glow. Crimson votive candles were lit, placed in candelabras that were set around the large room. In the middle of the marbled floor, were three large white bearskin rugs and a dozen of darkly colored silk pillows surrounded them. The luminescent moon peaked through the glass windows, its pale rays stretching across the expanse of the floor.

However, the lavish surroundings were not the recipient of Sara's attention. No, her eyes were glued to the dark figure standing near the fireplace. With his back turned, Sara could not tell who it was. All she could see was his long mass of curly locks cascading down his broad back that was covered up in, what Sara could guess, a robe of the finest black silk. He did not turn around nor acknowledged Sara's presence for he continued to speak in that rhythmic tone, so mesmerizing and enchanting.

_Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;  
It is the reflex of our earthly frame,  
That takes its meaning from the nobler part,  
And but translates the language of the heart._

Quietly, Sara made her way over to the soft bearskin rugs, and settled into the plush pillows. Content to just sit there and listen. What would he read next? What beautiful words would flow from his lips? Her heart pounded against her chest as she waited in anticipation.

The reader paused from his reading. He stared at the pages, looked beyond the words, and grasped the meaning. Closing his eyes, he sighed. Every poem he had read so far he thought of her. Always about…her. Will there be no end to his torment? Will he not simply accept there will never be anything between them except hostility and hatred? He opened his eyes and looked up.

Sara followed his gazed and nearly gasped. Past wielders of the Witchblade stared back down at her. Their portraits hung high above on the walls of the room. Their beauty, their strengths, all captured and painted perfectly by the artist. Suddenly, she knew where she was and who was standing near the hearth. Sara prepared to leave, but as she stood the simplest sound from him stopped her in her tracks.

An agonizing sigh escaped Ian's lips. He returned his gaze back to the book and shifted through the pages, in search of yet another poem that reminded him of her. A small smile tugged at his lips. He could not help but wonder what she would do if he suddenly showed up at her window, spewing poetry and undying love to her? A small chuckle escaped his lips, 'Probably shoot me on sight,' he thought. Shaking his head, Ian continued reading.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways_

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight._

_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace_

_I love thee to the level of everyday's _

_Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight._

_I love thee freely, as men strive for right_

_I love thee purely, as they turn from praise_

_I love thee with the passion put to use_

_I my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith._

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_

_With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,_

_Smiles, tears, of all my life! –and, if God _

_Choose,_

_I shall but love thee better after death._

His voice, they way he spoke each word was hypnotic. She could not find the strength to leave. Perhaps deep down she did not want to. He read with such passion, such longing that Sara could not help but start looking at Ian, not as her enemy or adversary, but as a man.

With a groan, Ian slammed the book closed and hurled it across the room. Running a frustrated hand through his hair he let out a long, ragged breath. "Why, why do I do this to myself?" Turning to the hearth, he rested his hands atop the mantel and stared into the fire. "Sara," he whispered. For a brief moment, Sara thought he had finally realized she was there and started to speak to her but he made no sign that he knew she was there.

"I am restless," he continued, "I cannot sleep, nor eat." Ian closed his eyes, "I cannot concentrate. All I ever do is think about you."

He pushed away from the fireplace and turned to another painting that was set upon an easel, placed in the middle of the room. Sara choked back the tears that threaten to fall. It was a portrait, not of a past wielder, but of her, Sara Pezzini. It was beautiful, she could see with every stroke the joy and sorrow the artist had gone through to capture her, her true beauty, her true self. There was no doubt, in Sara's mind, who the artist was. She watched as he walked closer to the painting. Ian raised his bare hand, his fingers hovering closely over the picture, as if wanting to touch but dared not to. "I've watched you, guided you, protected you and even," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "loved you. Yet, no matter how hard I try, you will never know."

"I am that knight, that sworn protector, the very one that has been by your side since the beginning. The one who shares in your pain, your victories, and your love. Yet, you will never know. Or perhaps you never wanted to know. Maybe, this time around _We_ are not meant to be." Ian snorted, "Perhaps I've been deluded to think otherwise."

Images of past lives ran through Sara's mind. And in each one he was there, always by her side, fighting for her, with her and…and dying because of her. Her heart ached, her eyes burned with tears, for years now she had successfully shielded her heart against him, and now after witnessing him bare his soul she could no longer deny him or herself.

His hand dropped to his side, his shoulders slumped, and with a dejected sigh, he walked around the painting and headed towards the door.

Sara struggled to find her voice, but managed to utter two words, "Don't go."

Ian's back stiffened, his hand hovered over the door knob. He must be delusional, his sorrowful mind was making him hallucinate, conjuring up voices that sounded like her.

"Please don't go…Ian."

He slowly turned around and nearly fainted to see her standing there. It must be a dream for Sara would never show up here at the mansion dressed in only… He closed his eyes, then, opened them. She was still there, standing in the middle of the room.

"How…how…" Ian stammered.

Sara shrugged, "Why don't you ask her," holding up her wrist, showing him the Witchblade.

"How long….did you hear…I..I," Ian could not complete a single sentence. He was in shock. How could he not have known that she was here? How could he not sense her? He stared at the Witchblade and it actually winked at him.

Did that mean she heard everything? 'Oh God,' he thought.

He watched as she move to pick up the book he so haphazardly threw just moments ago. She walked over to him and handed the book back. "Read to me," her eyes pleaded with his, "please."

Ian shook his head, "Sara I can't…" She placed her fingers atop his lips to stop his protest. She took the book from his hand and began to search the pages. She found a poem she liked and handed it back to him. "Read this to me," Sara demanded. She took his hand and led him to one of the leather chairs by the fire. Ian watched as she reclaimed her spot on the bearskin rug, drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest, and waited.

He could only stare at her, he was at loss for words, he did not know what to do next. Sara waited patiently, lightly coaxing him to read. Absently, he nodded his head and looked down at the poem she wanted him to read. His breath hitched as he noticed the title, "At Last by Elizabeth Akers Allen." His heart raced, his pulsed quickened, and his voice trembled

_At last, when all the summer shine  
That warmed life's early hours is past,  
Your loving fingers seek for mine  
And hold them close—at last—at last!  
Not oft the robin comes to build  
Its nest upon the leafless bough  
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,—  
But you, dear heart, you love me now._

Ian looked over to Sara and was overwhelmed by what he saw in her eyes. Did he dare hope that what he saw in those emerald orbs were signs of understanding and of…love? She smiled at him, answering his unspoken question.

_Though there are shadows on my brow  
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,—  
The marks where Time's remorseless plough  
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,—  
Though fled is every girlish grace  
Might win or hold a lover's vow,  
Despite my sad and faded face,  
And darkened heart, you love me now!  
_

Sara closed her eyes and became lost to the sound of his rich and dark voice. Laced with such passion that she could feel it sooth her aching soul, a soul she did not realize was wounded until now. A tear began to fall from her eye. She reached up to wipe it away but was surprised to feel his hand upon her face. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe away her tear.

She opened her eyes and stared into his. Had he always been this beautiful? He knelt in front of her, the book, long forgotten, sat on the chair he had been on. "Ian…" she whispered.

_  
I count no more my wasted tears;_

Ian began to recite the poem. He no longer need the book, he had long memorize and etched the words into his heart. It was one of his favorites. A poem he had hoped and wished to recite to her one day. He held her face between his hands and finished:

_  
They left no echo of their fall;  
I mourn no more my lonesome years;  
This blessed hour atones for all.  
I fear not all that Time or Fate  
May bring to burden heart or brow,—  
Strong in the love that came so late,  
Our souls shall keep it always now!_

There were no other poems, no other words that needed to be said. Sara reached up, wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled him down closer. She could fell his breath brush against her lips. Just a little bit closer and Ian would finally taste that sweet nectar that was her mouth

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

BEEP!

BEEP!

BEEP!

Sara jumped up from the sound of her alarm clock going off. "No!" she groaned. Turning around she willed the gauntlet and smashed the intrusive piece of shit machinery into shards of little plastic and metal. She plopped her head back down onto the pillow and closed her eyes shut. Hoping to transport herself back there to him. "FUCK!" she cursed into the pillow when it didn't happen. She sat up in bed and stared down at the blade, begging it to bring her back. It remained dull, lifeless, and cold against her wrist. "Bitch," she cursed at it again.

Sara dropped her head into her hands and wept quietly. So much was going through her, she was confused, frustrated, and disappointed. Was this some kind of sick, twisted joke? Did the blade enjoy tormenting her? Was the dream even…real? She had been so caught up with her thoughts that she did not hear her cell phone go off. With one final sniff she answered, "Pezzini," she hoarsely replied.

"Good morning…Sara."

Sara gasped, "Ian." Her heart was beating wildly against her chest and there were butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

"From the sound of your voice, I take it that I was not the only one disappointed at waking up this early morning. Had any dreams lately, Sara?"

Sara smiled, "You know damn well I did…Ian." She could sense him smiling on the other end.

There was a long pause and only silence hung between them. Ian finally spoke, breaking the tension. "Tell me, Sara. Was it a good dream?"

Ian had to know, was it all real? Or will it once again be another cruel joke.

Sara laid back down onto her bed and smiled, "No, Ian."

Ian held his breath. No? NO?

"It left me wanting more, Ian. Much more"

Ian let out the breath he had been holding. A huge smile crossing his lips, "Perhaps my lady wishes for another night of…poetry?"

"You bet your ass she does." Ian let out a small laugh. "Every well my lady, until tonight then." Just before he was about to hang up Sara called out his name, "Oh and Ian?"

"Yes?"

"Leave the silk robe behind."

Click.

Ian stared at the phone before gently putting it away. He got up the chair, walked across the room, and scanned the many books that lined the wall. 'Hm, where to start.' He wondered. A smile plastered across his face and he reached up to grab another book of poetry.

A/N: I know it has been a very long time since I've written anything. I know I should be working on Revelation but I couldn't help myself this needed to be done. Hope you all enjoyed it!

Spin )

Poems:

Thread softly because you thread on my dreams by William Butler Yeats

She walks in beauty by Lord Byron

Longing by Matthew Arnold

Desire by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

How I love thee by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


End file.
